How to Honeymoon Alone

I smile. “Hello.”

“About the other day.”

Heat passes through me and settles in my stomach. “You mean our drinks by the beach?” I ask.

He grins. “No.”

“The phone call from your colleague that I answered?”

“Not that, either,” he says. “The thing I’m referring to happened in a certain pool.”

“Ah,” I say. “That.”

“Yes, that.”

“What about it?”

His hand stretches out, lands on my hipbone. It’s a warm weight over a thin sundress. “Do you want to come over tonight?”

Nerves flutter beneath his hand. Perhaps he senses that in the brief silence because his voice softens. “No pressure,” he says. “I just have a painfully well-stocked minibar and too much cash to burn.”

I turn toward him. He kisses me, a slow touch of his lips against mine.

“I would,” I say, “but I have plans.”

“Don’t tell me you’ve met another man who is honeymooning alone.”

I playfully push on his shoulder but leave my hand pressed to his skin. “No. I actually booked myself a massage. It’s a gift from my parents and best friend. They told me to choose something from the spa menu.”

His eyes warm. “That’s nice of them.”Exclusive © material by Nô(/v)elDrama.Org.

“It really is. But after that, though, I’m free. I could… come by. We could order room service?”

He leans in and kisses me again, letting me know exactly what he thinks of that plan.

With my body pleasurably sore from the massage, and butterflies dancing in my stomach, I knock on the door of bungalow twelve. Phillip opens the door. He’s in a pair of shorts, feet bare, and another one of his linen button-downs. It’s only buttoned halfway up, and his hair is ruffled.

“Eden,” he says.

“Hey, I’m sorry my massage appointment ran so late.”

“No problem.” He takes a step back, inviting me across the threshold. “Want to come in?”

I step inside his bungalow. I’ve only seen it from the deck and the comfort of the pool through the glass patio doors. Just a hint of a king bed and an armchair.

Now I’m getting the full tour.

The tiled floors are a soft sandy color, and the walls are painted in the same hue. The furniture is mostly rattan, woven into intricate patterns. Cream-colored throw pillows adorn the sofa and armchair. Off to one side is a small kitchenette with a wooden countertop and cabinets stained rich mahogany.

I pause halfway through the living room. “This is all for one person?”

“I think the bungalow technically accommodates four, so it works for families. You’re not supposed to be enjoying it alone.”

I peek into the giant bathroom, and that’s the real highlight. The walls and floors are covered in marble, and the vanity is outfitted with gold-plated fixtures. A deep soaking tub sits in the corner. And as a finishing touch, there is a walk-in shower, complete with a rainfall shower head and an array of oils and shampoos to choose from.

Everything about this place screams luxury.

“That shower is the size of my entire bathroom at home,” I say.

Phillip chuckles behind me. “Yeah, it’s larger than it needs to be.”

“Fits a family of four, too.” I walk through to the spacious master bedroom. This is the room I’ve seen while peeking through the sliding doors. They’re half-open now and let in the familiar sound of Bajan nightlife. Chirps and serenading insects.

His bed is larger than the one in my room. A continental king. It’s neatly made, the pillows stacked into an inviting headrest. The TV is on, but the program is paused.

I read the caption on the screen. “No way.”

There’s a sigh beside me. “It’s good.”

“You’re watching a sports documentary?”

“Yes.”

“No JFK assassination tonight?”

“No, I’m saving that for tomorrow.” He steps past me to the minibar. It’s beautifully built into the mahogany cabinetry that combines the master bedroom with the living room, in an open floor plan. “Want a drink?”

“Yes, please.”

He sets to work with the array of small bottles and mixers he has in the fridge. I spot a plate of beautifully arranged fruit hidden in there.

Oh, to be staying in a bungalow.

There’s a suitcase in the corner next to a walk-in closet. His shirts hang neatly in a row on the left side of the rod.

I want to snoop and I can’t. Turning, I catch sight of a bundle of papers next to a beautiful arrangement of tropical flowers on a table.

The top page has the word itinerary printed on it.

“Oh,” I say. “I’ve found it!”

Phillip glances over from the drink-making. “Did you bring your guidebook so you could compare notes?”

“No, but I should’ve.” I pick it up and start reading. There are names at the top. Honeymoon in Barbados for Mr. and Mrs. Meyer. Below is a detailed itinerary. Pickup at 06:00 from 113 Row Street, Chicago. Takeoff from O’Hare at 09:00, arrival in Bridgetown at 17:45.

“She wrote it using military time?” I ask.

Phillip adds ice into two glasses. “I requested it,” he says. “It’s more accurate. No risk of confusion.”